Rilke, “Memory,” trans. by Edward Snow

mythologyofblue:

And you wait, you wait for that one thing
that will infinitely enlarge your life;
the gigantic, the stupendous,
the awakening of stones,
depths turned round toward you.

posted : Thursday, September 18th, 2014

reblogged from : Howitzer Literary Society

“ Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.
— Brene Brown (via homeotherm)

(Source: quotlandia)

posted : Thursday, September 18th, 2014

reblogged from : saturn rising

“People escape into other things; you don’t escape into poetry. You confront yourself when you are reading poems; they draw you inward, they don’t project you outward. I think people want to escape themselves. They do not want to do the work. They want to be entertained. Poetry is a kind of entertainment but a different kind, its meditative.”

— Mark Strand (gnostix1 via mttbll)

(Source: guernicamag.com)

posted : Thursday, September 18th, 2014

reblogged from : gnostix2

julialukedesign:

Georgia O’Keeffe ‘light coming on the plains II,’ 1917

julialukedesign:

Georgia O’Keeffe ‘light coming on the plains II,’ 1917

posted : Wednesday, September 17th, 2014

reblogged from : tiny particles of larger loves

aseaofquotes:

— Marcel Proust

aseaofquotes:

— Marcel Proust

posted : Wednesday, September 17th, 2014

reblogged from : A Sea of Quotes

mpdrolet:




South Side, Chicago
David Schalliol

mpdrolet:

South Side, Chicago

David Schalliol

posted : Tuesday, September 16th, 2014

reblogged from : rara avis in terris

“ I read in order to write. I read out of obsession with writing.

posted : Monday, September 15th, 2014

reblogged from : The Paris Review

Brett Elizabeth Jenkins, “Ghost in the Machine”

There is a ghost in the machine of my body. The haunting 
happens like this: I loll on the bed, open-mouthed, 
acting dead. My husband asks, Are you dead 
again? My gallbladder this time. If removed, 
the ghost would return to inhabit my pancreas. 
My lung swells with the ghost. It haunts and goes 
deeper when I breathe. The ghost likes the smell 
of trumpets and clapping. Today I am dead 
on the kitchen floor. Are you dead? 
Sometimes I say Yes, of course I’m dead. Other times he steps 
around my dead body, opening cupboards, putting away the plates.”

posted : Monday, September 15th, 2014

reblogged from : SWINGING AXES

“”The invention of the soul by man is hinted at every time the feeling appears that the body is a parasite, something like a worm adhering to the ego. It’s enough to feel that one lives (and not only life as an acceptance, as something-that-is-good-that-it-happened) for what is even closest and most loved by the body, the right hand , for example, suddenly to be an object that participates with repugnance in the double condition of not being me and clinging to me. I swallow my soup. Then in the midst of what I am reading, I think: “The soup is in me, I have it in this pouch which I will never see, my stomach.” I feel with two fingers and I touch the mass, the motion of food there inside. And I am this , a bag with food inside of it. Then the soul is born: “No I am not that.””

— Hopscotch by Julio Cortazar (literaryconditionvia jcsnyc)

posted : Saturday, September 13th, 2014

reblogged from : The Literary Condition

suspendedstagnation:

Le Revelateur
Directed by Philippe Garrel

suspendedstagnation:

Le Revelateur

Directed by Philippe Garrel

posted : Friday, September 12th, 2014

reblogged from : magasin des curiosités